


For The Win

by Amalia Kensington (amaliak01)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Crack, Football, Friendship/Love, I'm so not even sorry, Love In A Time of Football, Mindless Fluff, Post S3, World Cup nonsense, idek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 10:45:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1815724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaliak01/pseuds/Amalia%20Kensington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Molly find common ground in the most unexpected place. (Crack!fic of World Cup silliness)</p>
            </blockquote>





	For The Win

**Author's Note:**

  * For [miabicicletta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miabicicletta/gifts).



> I don't own BBC Sherlock or anything else here other than the cheesy plot and typos.

"Please just...run him, won't you?" John was begging her on the phone and Molly didn't hold back a frown from her face.

 

"John, I'd love to help, really, but I don't have anything for him here right now. Besides, I've worked double overtime this week and I can't be here to help anyway, I'm sorry."

 

"Molly it doesn't have to be any of that, and I really really am sorry to bother like this, and I never in my life thought I would say it, but I need Sherlock Holmes to leave my house and stop being so helpful."

Molly sighed. "John, there's a match on at the pub and I'm going to cheer on England in the final qualifiers. I'm really sorry."

 

"Great! Take him to that! He can deduce people to his heart's content and really, you won't need to watch him that much!" John was desperately lying now, and Molly knew that this discussion was pretty much over. Of course she would help.

 

"Alright, alright, I'll take him," she said, shutting off the lights and locking the lab door behind her.

 

"I owe you so big," John said gratefully.

 

"But you have to work out how to get him there because I'm not going to."

 

Molly decided that she wasn't about wait around for Sherlock Holmes to appear like she was waiting around for a date outside the pub. She found a spot at the bar and ordered beer and chips, enjoying the relaxing sensation of being surrounded by fellow fans, the eager anticipation.

 

Pre-game commentary on the telly was barely audible as her chips arrived, but it was surely filled with World Cup dreams. This was the exciting bit, she knew. Her father loved football and she's grown up with the same sort of passion for it, even if it was more subdued. This time would always make her feel nostalgic for him, of course, but the feeling of being swept away in the excitement of it all was so relaxing.

 

"Have I missed the start then?"

 

Molly's heart tightened at the sound of his voice coming from uncomfortably close behind her. Sherlock Holmes was shucking off his coat as he managed to squeeze his way beside her at the bar, signaling the bartender with a slender hand.

 

This was not going to be conducive to relaxing by a long shot.

 

 

* * *

 

She’d kissed him.

 

England had won and Molly Hooper had kissed Sherlock Holmes. 

 

It had been a celebratory kiss, exchanged briefly and innocently in the heat of the moment as the pub around them had exploded in cheers and Molly congratulated herself in only hesitating for a moment at the sight of his shocked face before turning and hugging the other bloke cheering beside her, playing it off as a just part of the excitement. 

 

Molly hadn’t expected Sherlock to know anything about football, much less be actually interested and engaged, making comments about statistics she hadn’t realized that he’d known. She had considered that maybe once the match was over and they could have a quiet moment, she would ask him where he’d picked that up.

 

But no, she couldn’t even do that right, could she? She had to send it all to pot on an impulse move, hadn’t she? 

 

She and Sherlock had been on tenuous ground in their relationship since the new year, the Moriarty fiasco still hanging around them like a stubborn odor and the things that had happened since the summer still healing. They’d reached a good place in their friendship lately, and Molly wanted to smack herself in the face to messing all that up and had yet another reason to be rather annoyed at Wayne Rooney. 

 

When the match was over, she’d quickly made her excuses and gotten out of the pub, stepping out into the chilly March air and practically sprinting down the street towards her flat. She’d fulfilled her promise to John to get Sherlock out for a bit and now she wanted to be left to her humiliation in peace.

 

Had she stayed at the pub, she might have noted the look of confusion in Sherlock’s eyes, might have seen (observed) how he’d stood closer to her for the remainder of the match, how he’d found himself wanting her to stay. 

 

Maybe, if she looked hard enough, she would have seen how much he wanted her to kiss him again.

 

 

* * *

 

It was her father that had introduced football to her at a young age, she explained, doing her best to not look flustered around him as they sat together at the canteen, the remains of her dinner on the table between them, abandoned now. 

 

She was running her long fingers up and down the side of her coffee mug so absentmindedly, it was distracting, but still he managed to focus on what she was saying. 

 

It took him three days after the match at the pub where she’d first kissed him for him to come to a decision and formulate a plan: Sherlock Holmes was going to win over Molly Hooper. And it was football that would get him there.

 

Somewhere in the dossier he had kept on Molly in his mind palace, he’d registered that she was a fan, of course, but at the time that he knew that it hadn’t seemed particularly relevant, as she was more of a subdued and yet fiercely loyal fan to the particular clubs she followed. It never intruded with her work, so he hadn’t thought to mention it. And since then, other things had seemed to take precedence. All that had changed now. 

 

Sherlock himself was more than familiar with the sport. As a child, he’d been engaged with it through his brothers and growing up, at first just the basics of the sport until he’d found the strategies of play and had taken the opportunity to draw them up as often as he could. While never really being one to participate more in a casual way, the mathematics of it became of great interest in the Holmes household. Once escalated to include the tournaments and the leagues, it became an obsession: one that ultimately brought conflict. After a particularly heated discussion (shouting match) between Mycroft, Mummy and himself, it was determined that for the sake of everyone, football was from then on banned in the Holmes’ home. 

 

That had been so many years now, but Sherlock was sure there was enough of that interest left in him to show Molly, to have something to show her that yes, indeed, they could have something in common other than dead bodies and the fascination for the macabre (not that they needed more than that, really, but it certainly had proved to be a step in the right direction). 

 

She seemed to get over her surprise at his interest over the course of the next few weeks, when he would casually bring it up in conversation in the lab or if she happened to be with him on a case. He’d even gone as far as giving her the insight into his own childhood and had been relieved to see the fondness in her eyes along with a hint of amusement that he’d genuinely missed in all these long months since the Magnussen case. 

 

She was an England fan (obviously), but he’d found out she also supported Reading F.C. (“I’m from Wokingham, Sherlock, of course I support the Royals!”) though her father was of the rival club Aldershot. It was so like Molly to cheer on the underdog, perfectly in line with everything Sherlock knew about her. She’d light up when talking about her father, get excited when recounting particularly fond memories of matches, wins and losses. It meant so much to her, to have the connection to someone she loved alive in that way. 

 

And so it was that Sherlock found himself standing very close to Molly at a pub (perhaps more than he needed to since it wasn’t as crowded), no guise or rouse other than to share this with her, watching the first match of Reading vs Doncaster. 

 

A tense first half had Molly biting her lip and cursing under her breath in the most endearing of ways. Sherlock had honestly tried to at least pretend to pay attention to the match, but was constantly drawn back to the way Molly fidgeted beside him, taking gulps of the beer in front of her followed by the nibbling of chips as her eyes were riveted to the screens before them. She made idle chatter with the people around them during the interlude and smiled apologetically at Sherlock.

 

“I’m sorry, I just get really involved. It’s silly, isn’t it?”

 

“Not at all. I don’t think that you have that much to worry actually. The strategy that’s being carried out is rather a clever one when you look at it, and they should come back round after the second half,” Sherlock replied, surprised at himself a bit that he had seemed to be paying attention after all. 

 

Interesting.

 

It turned out that he was right, justified in the quick domination by the Royals in the second half, scoring up until the last minute win. Molly had spent the entirety of the second half, gripping onto his sleeve, cheering happily at all three goals. 

 

“Sherlock you were right!” she exclaimed at the sound of the whistle indicating the end of the game and a solid win. Molly leaned in and planted a joyful kiss on his lips once again.

 

He was bit more prepared this time as she pulled back, taking hold of her wrist and giving her a small smile. He wanted to reassure her that it was all perfectly all right, more than all right, in fact. 

 

“I had little to do with their win, I’m afraid, but thank you,” he told her, knowing that he was likely as flushed as she looked. 

 

She looked away from him, clearing her throat, but didn’t actually bolt, which Sherlock considered a victory. “How did you see all of that? How did you know?”

 

“Well, it actually fit into an algorithm that I’d come up with some time ago,” Sherlock replied.

 

Molly looked back at him then, seeming to take in his features for a moment before holding his gaze steadily. “That’s amazing. Do you think that maybe you could explain it to me?”

 

Sherlock smiled in reply. 

 

 

* * *

 

Somehow, it was June and Molly was curled into the side of new boyfriend, trying to find some enjoyment in that and not the crushing disappointment of England having been sent packing in the first round.

 

“What about your algorithm?” said dejectedly, as he rubbed his hand up and down her back.

 

“I’m afraid it doesn’t work when it’s rigged,” he replied, his eyes flickering to the bracket board set up at 221B, lines and names and dates and calculations on every surface of it. 

 

Molly sighed deeply and nodded, not knowing whether to feel indignant about that as a fan or being resigned to accepting what she knew was likely true. Mycroft had been a bit too involved in their discussions of late to not have been somehow involved. 

 

Sherlock adjusted them on the couch, bringing her up closer to tilt her chin up. He places his hands carefully around her face, kissing her slowly and carefully, the sensation still new and exhilarating as they’d decided to take this a step at a time. 

 

Breathless, Molly curled her fingers into his shirt as she broke away. 

 

“Better?” he asked, searching her face.

 

Molly hummed in response and tilted her head a bit in question. “Sherlock, did you just...kiss me to make me feel better?”

 

His eyebrow twitched. “Not good?”

 

Molly let a slow smile grow on her face. “No. Very good, indeed.”

 

“Ah well then, perhaps you won’t really be needing those, then?” Sherlock gestured to the coffee table where for the first time Molly noticed a small white envelope. Curious, she reached for it and pulled out the contents.

 

She found herself at a loss for words as she held in her hands two tickets Madjeski Stadium, two months from now, Reading vs Swansea. She bit her lip to hold down the size of her grin as she looked back at Sherlock, who seemed to be waiting for her reaction. 

 

Molly quickly stuffed the tickets back in the envelope and dropped it back on the table before wrapping her arms around Sherlock’s neck and kissing him breathless, showing him how much better he’d really managed to make things.

 

 

* * *

END  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when you talk to me on gchat: crack ideas will flow. 
> 
> There's a whole back story to this that I didn't even begin to write and only hinted at, but I love the idea of this relationship taking off over something like football. Thank you to miabicicletta for being my enabler on this one!


End file.
